


Crossroads

by rizcriz



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 12:05:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17365601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: The prompt for this fic was: Eliot and the Suicide Fountain.





	Crossroads

 

They open it back up in the spring. When Sunderland makes the announcement during class, Eliot merely rolls his eyes, and carries on pretending to do his work while a first year finishes up both of their projects. But he saves it. He’s not sure why he does, isn’t even sure it’s a conscious decision. But it’s there, ticking like a time bomb at the back of his mind. 

He finds himself staring at it as he walks across campus. They’re all trying to pretend everything’s normal, but he killed Mike; Mike didn’t even know—He’s not doing it consciously. Really. It’s just . . . there’s something about it that pulls him in closer. Something that makes him see it, in a way that he never has before. Maybe that’s the danger of it. 

It wins.

Four days after they open it back up, he has some time before he has to meet up with Margo and Quentin. It doesn’t help that Sunderland spelled him sober, so all these feelings are bubbling up over the surface, and he feels like he’s going to fucking explode. It’s not on purpose. But, he finds himself moving towards it. He can’t even pretend that’s not what he’s doing, because otherwise he wouldn’t step foot on this side of campus. Wouldn’t even look this distraction. Never has before. 

He stops about twenty yards away from it. Inhales shakily, like something’s settling in his gut and he needs to make room for it. And then he shakes his head and stumbles backwards, before turning on his heel and rushing towards the Physical Kids Cottage for whatever drugs he can find to make it all go away. 

Margo would never forgive him.

But Eliot’s always been selfish. 

Which is how, three days later, he’s back. Closer. 

He can feel the mist from the fountain settling on his skin, he’s so close. He closes his eyes, lets himself get a little lost in the sensation.

It’s almost enough. 

But he’s high. So he turns around and walks away again. 

And he doesn’t think about it for nearly a week because they’re so focused on killing the Beast. But after Margo forces him to study with her—probably because she doesn’t trust him not to get unbelievably high—he passes it. And then he stops. And turns back around to face it. 

He clears his throat, and looks around. Later, he thinks. He’ll deal with it later. 

_ It _ . He could laugh. 

Later, after they’ve finished trying to find a way to defeat the Beast, Quentin’s curled up on the couch, knocked out and snoring. Margo’s upstairs, either sleeping or reading, Eliot can’t be sure. He looks down on Quentin for a long moment. Takes in the way his hair falls over his face, and the strands on his mouth that rise and fall with his every breath. He kneels down on the ground beside him, reaches up to gently cup Quentin’s cheek. 

“I think I’ll miss you the most,” He breathes, soft, before leaning up and pressing a soft kiss to Quentin’s temple. He stays there for a moment, breathing in Quentin’s aftershave, before finally pulling away and nodding to himself. 

He just can’t do this anymore. They’ll be fine.

And if they’re not . . . 

He doesn't want to think about that. Instead, he lets his hand slide off Quentin’s cheek, pat gently at the space above his heart, and then turns on his heel and walks out of the cottage. 

The walk is short, or long, he doesn’t really know. Too lost in his thoughts. Wondering how it’ll feel. if it’ll be quick or slow, or anticlimactic. He wonders if anyone will know he did it, or if he’ll just be marked down as another missing student in the Brakebills Book of Oh God We Fucked Up. But before he knows it, he’s standing at the base of it.

Of the Suicide Fountain. 

He steps up, carefully, and stands on the edge of the fountain. Gazes down into the water. 

Closes his eyes. One deep breath—

“What the  _ fuck _ are you doing?” 

His eyes jerk open. He knows that voice.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” He mutters without looking. He’s too lost in the ripples in the water. Too lost in general, actually. Too far gone to be saved. Go home, Q, he thinks. Just go back to the cottage and forget he’s here. 

“I’m—I’m a light sleeper. What are you  _ doing _ ?”

Eliot doesn’t respond. Just takes in a slow breath. Quentin’s presence shouldn’t—

“El,” Quentin breathes, and Eliot can hear the drag of his shoes against the concrete. Quentin needs to learn to walk without dragging his feet. Have confidence. “ _ Eliot _ .” His voice is firmer now, though it’s stunted because he sounds a little breathless and scared. What’s there to be scared of? “Look at me.” 

“Go back to the Cottage, Q.” 

“Why?” 

He has to roll his eyes at that. “You  _ know _ why.” 

There’s more of the scratch-scraping of Quentin’s shoes, until Eliot can feel him standing right behind him. Like electricity bounces between them, detecting the distance. Trying to close it. “I’m not leaving you alone here, Eliot.” 

“Why not? You’ve been on the ledge before. Only difference is  _ I’m _ not too much of a coward to go through with it.” 

He practically feels the quick inhale of air Quentin takes. 

“Eliot,” He murmurs after a beat, “ _ Don’t do this _ .” 

“I’ve already made up my mind.” 

“What about Margo?” 

Eliot clenches his jaw. “Margo’ll be fine.” 

“Do you really think that?”

_ No _ . “Yes.” 

There’s a small sigh of resignation, and Eliot almost thinks Quentin’s going to leave. But then Quentin drags his feet forward, until he’s stepping up onto the edge of the fountain, squaring his shoulders and looking up at Eliot. “Fine,” He says, reaching out to lace his fingers through Eliot’s. His hands are trembling. Eliot looks down at their hands, mouth falling open. “You’re not doing it alone, then.” 

“Let go,” Eliot murmurs. But he doesn’t move to untangle their hands. Just stares down at them, and flexes slightly to feel Quentin squeeze tighter. 

“ _ No _ .” 

He rolls his lips together, and finally allows himself to look up at him. Which—yep, that’s why he’d been avoiding looking at him—is a mistake, because Quentin looks like a puppy. That Eliot’s kicked repeatedly. Without remorse. “Jesus, Quentin,” He mutters, though his voice comes out hoarse and slightly choked off, “Stop looking at me like I  _ stepped on your tail. _ ” 

“Stop trying to  _ kill yourself _ ,” Quentin bites back. 

“That’s not fair.” 

“Neither is life, and yet.” He motions with his free hand, “Here we are.” 

“Q . . .”

“ _ You _ jump.  _ I _ jump. That’s the deal, Eliot.” It’s almost scary how stiff and serious his voice is. Eliot looks away, gazes down at the water in front of them. 

He inhales shakily. “I  _ can’t— _ “ He breaks off, shaking his head as the words get lost. How can he even begin to put how he feels into words? It’s a mess. A big fucking ball of emotion that is clamping down on his chest, and making it hard to breathe. Like the entire world has wound itself up in him, clamping down on his heart. 

Quentin squeezes his hand, and Eliot can see him nodding in his peripheral. “I know,” He says, soft. “But you have to.” 

“ _ Why _ ?” 

He hears Quentin lick his lips. “Because if you don’t, these feelings. They—they don’t  _ disappear _ . They just.  _ They go into someone else. _ ” He pulls Eliot’s arm in closer, squeezing his hand so tight it hurts. But it’s a nice pain—tangible. Distinguishable. So different than what he’s been feeling since Mike. “I’ve—I wasn’t a coward every time I tried, El. I, uh. I did it, once. I just failed.” 

Eliot turns to look at him. “What?” He blinks. What the  _ fuck _ ? 

“I was fourteen,” Quentin supplies, looking out at the water. “Swallowed a whole bottle of pills. Woke up the next morning.” He shakes his head, and swallows audibly. “Sometimes I still—I still think about what that would have done to my dad. If I’d succeeded.” His face crumples as he turns his attention back on Eliot. “He would have been crushed. I’m—I’m all he has. He would have blamed himself.” He sucks his bottom lip in, reaching up with his free hand to wipe at his eyes. “Thing is, Eliot,” He breathes, “I—I think about doing it all the time.” He turns away and shrugs. “I know the best buildings in New York to do it, too. Least security, easiest roof access. Highest roof. Best view— _ everything _ .” 

“What stops you?” He doesn’t even mean to ask, it just blurts out of him. 

Quentin nods once, but doesn’t turn to look at him. “Not just my dad, not anymore. It’s—“ Finally, he looks back at him. “It’s got a lot to do with you, actually.” He shrugs. “And Margo—and, Alice. Everyone. Even Penny.” 

“ _ How _ ?” Eliot takes a quick breath and turns to face him. “How does—how can you think about what they’re feeling if it hurts this much?” A broken little sound vibrates through his throat, and Quentin’s eyebrows furrow in response. “Q—it. It hurts. It hurts so fucking much. Alcohol doesn’t even put a dent in it. Cocaine? Heroine? Fucking  _ ecstasy _ ? It doesn’t go away. It—it’s taken over everything, Q.” He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he tastes the saltwater on his lips, and he exhales so harshly his stomach crushes inward achingly. “How can thinking about—other people— _ how’s it even possible _ ?” 

“Because if I don’t . . . it, it consumes me.” 

“Doesn’t it already?”

Quentin doesn’t say anything for a few long moments, his eyes flickering between Eliot’s. And for at least a couple of the moments, Eliot thinks this is the moment that confirms that it doesn’t end. But then Quentin turns so he’s fully facing him, and reaches up, cupping Eliot’s jaw. “Not when I’m like this,” He says, so soft, Eliot can barely hear him over the fountain. “Not when I have an anchor.” 

“What does that even mean?” 

He swallows, loud. “Every time it gets hard. Which is like,” he rolls his eyes, looking down for a moment, “Every day. I—I think about what would happen. If someone else had this in them. If I died—and they had to live with. With knowing that I was feeling like  _ this _ —and that they didn’t do anything, because i didn’t—didn’t say anything to them. I think about  _ you _ ,” His hand slips down to Eliot’s shoulder. “How you’d react with this in you. And Margo, and Alice. Julia—I think about everyone that. That cares about me even a little. I think about this shit—this.  _ Brokenness _ . Moving into them like some kind of parasitic snake—and it makes me so  _ angry _ . At me. At my brain. At—at everything. 

“The anger is somehow so much—brighter? Fiercer? Stronger, maybe. Than the pain. I refuse to let this shit in me control me. I’m not—I’m not it’s puppet. I’m not it’s  _ host _ . Even if it feels like it. I, just. I have to fight. Otherwise other people suffer. And I don’t—I  _ won’t _ let them.” 

“How is being angry better than this?” 

“If I’m  _ angry _ I’m not  _ dead _ .” 

Eliot reaches up to wrap his hand around Quentin’s on his chest. “That’s so fucked.” 

“So is being so coked up and drunk that you’re barely alive, Eliot.” He shrugs, “Neither of us have great coping mechanisms.” 

“Then we shouldn’t bother trying.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so desperate, but somehow it does. Comes out high pitched and broken. 

“That’s like saying because the Beast might kill us we shouldn’t try. Or—friendships are hard and take work, so we shouldn’t make friends. Love has risks, so we shouldn’t fall in love. Everything in life is a fucking battle, Eliot. We can’t just find the path of least resistance. Otherwise we’re not living at all.” 

“I fell for someone and I ended up  _ killing _ him.” He lets go of Quentin’s hand on his heart, and looks down at the water beneath them. “Q, I’d rather be dead than—than do anything like this. I’d rather be dead. Every person I’ve loved I’ve—“ 

“You haven’t hurt  _ me _ .” 

Eliot swallows. “Who says I—“ 

“ _ I’m not an idiot _ , Eliot.” Quentin fits the fabric of Eliot’s vest in his fist, which is only mildly aggravating as Eliot had chosen his finest vest to wear tonight. Desperate and miserable or not, he wasn’t going to die looking like garbage. He’d even brushed his hair. The fingers still laced through Eliot’s squeeze tighter still. “I know everyone—everyone thinks I am. But I’m not. I know. I—“ He bites down on his bottom lip. 

“You?” 

“I know you probably think Margo’s . . . the only one that would care. If you . . .” He trails off and looks down at the fountain. “But she’s  _ not _ .” He looks back up at him, eyes misty. “I would miss you. You—you are the single most important person in my life right now.”

“Q—“ 

“I know it’s selfish to ask you to stay. Or—or  _ greedy _ , I guess. But I can help you. With this.” 

“How?” Eliot shakes his head, “Q—this shit. It’s not—it’s not  _ fading _ just because you—“ 

“You told me,” Quentin interrupts, “Back when I thought I was going to get expelled.” 

“Q . . .” 

“I’m not going to tell you it gets better, Eliot, because you know it won’t. It doesn’t. It just—hurts in different ways. But—I. I’m telling you  _ you’re not alone here _ .” He offers a closed lip smile—the one he usually reserves for pretending he’s not upset, letting go of Eliot’s vest, and sliding his hand over his heart, “ _ You’re not alone _ .” 

“That’s not fair.” 

Quentin lets out a wet laugh, nodding, as some of the tears finally slip over his cheeks, “I thought we already established that life’s not fair, El.” 

Eliot’s chin trembles. “Q—“

“ _ Please _ come back with me.” His eyes are wide and open, and he looks more like a puppy than he ever has before, and Eliot’s heart fucking clenches tight. Not the universe and the pressure and pain surrounding it—but his fucking heart. “Don’t do this. Don’t end this because you’re in pain. Nobody will ever get to meet you. Nobody will ever get to  _ love _ you—“ 

“ _ That’s _ probably for the best.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Quentin mutters, pressing his hand into Eliot’s chest. He’s so warm, like a heated blanket in the coldest winter. “ _ Please _ . We can get through this. Together.” He must sense Eliot’s hesitation because he pulls in a deep breath. “Lean on me. When it gets bad. Eliot. Let me  _ help _ .” 

“I can—“ 

“So help me god if you say you can’t I will  _ strangle _ you, and then tell Margo.” 

“Margo would just kill me instead.

Quentin stares at him for a long moment, before letting a little laugh bubble out. “Yeah,” He says, moving forward so he can rest his forehead on Eliot’s shoulder. “She would. But, still.” He pauses, the silence heavy. When he speaks again, his hands are shaking again, and the words come out so quiet, Eliot’s not even sure he hears them right. “ _ I need you _ , Eliot Waugh.” 

He brings his free hand up, cupping the back of Quentin’s neck. His thumb dips in the hairline, and he nods, tucking his chin against Quentin’s temple. “Okay,” He breathes. Quentin goes tense, before he carefully pulls away, just enough to look up at him with big, round, hopeful eyes. Eliot nods. “Okay,” He repeats. “ _ Okay _ .” 

“Okay,” Quentin echoes. He swallows, his adam's apple bobbing up and down, and then looks down at their hands laced together. “Okay.” He looks back up, and then very deliberately, takes a step back, before moving and hanging one food over the side of the fountain, hovering over the cement. He holds it there, raising an eyebrow at Eliot. Silently, Eliot mimics the motion, and Quentin dips down so his toes press into the concrete, and he pauses again, until Eliot follows the motion.

And then Quentin tugs him off the fountain, and drops his hand so he can wrap his arms around Eliot’s waist, and bury his face in his chest. It takes a moment, but Eliot carefully wraps his arms around Quentin, squeezing him like it’s all he’s got holding him together.

To be fair, it kind of is.

It feels okay. It’s not . . . better. It fucking hurts every time he breathes, and he can’t handle any of this, but.

Quentin _needs_ him. 

“We’d better get back,” He says after a few long minutes, nosing his way along Quentin’s hairline. “Before anyone notices.” 

Quentin nods into his chest, but doesn’t move to pull away. Eliot opens his mouth to try again, but Quentin twists his neck until his chin is poking Eliot in the sternum. “No keeping it locked away,” He says, “No burying it under the drugs—talk to me.  _ Cope _ .” 

“Easier said than done.” 

Quentin shrugs. “That’s why it needs to be done.” 

Eliot bites down on his bottom lip before closing his eyes and nodding. “Yeah,” he breathes, “Okay, Q.” He opens his eyes, narrowing them down at Quentin as he unravels one arm and uses it to poke him in the side, “But if you think I’m giving up alcohol—“ 

“Oh god,  _ no _ ,” Quentin wrinkles his nose, “No, we need  _ all _ the alcohol.” 

For the first time in weeks, Eliot feels an amused little smile tug at his lips as he nods. “Now?” 

Quentin blinks up at him with his big doe eyes. “That’s the plan. Get wasted and forget what just almost happened.” 

“We could fall into bed together, too.” 

The corners of Quentin’s eyes crinkle as he rolls them, “Yeah, maybe,” he says, pulling away and holding his hand out for him. 

Eliot looks down at it and then back up at him. “If you’re worried—“

“I’m not. I just—I wanna. Hold. Your hand.” 

“Oh. Okay.” He nods, once, and then takes Quentin’s hand in his. “Think we can . . . take the long way back?” 

Quentin nods, moving to lean into him as they start walking. “‘Course.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
